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’ ‘I still think you ought to have waited, miss. Sebastian snorted, “If it isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black!” “Your house is host to the lowest forms of life, those without morals! I will no longer allow my children to live 210 in such a house. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. Do you promise to do this?" "Solemnly," rejoined the carpenter.
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